2003-06-24 - 2:29 p.m.
When it comes to men, I’m an emotional dullard. What’s that, I should give you an example? Okely dokely.
When I was lusting after P ten** years ago, I was never sure that he liked me. Sure, we hung out at his apartment all the time; sure, he wrote me 23-page letters. Sure, he read my painfully bad poetry and even let me get away with phrases like “Kool-Aid stained wooden spoon”. But whether or not he was actually interested…I wasn’t sure and didn’t ask.
But yesterday, while driving home after a TFUD [Truly Fucked Up Day] – and again, this is ten** years later – I realized that damn it, he did like me. How do I know? Because P, with his head-to-foot sooty black clothing, an obsession with Lou Reed and disdain for all adults, came over one afternoon and made chocolate chip cookies . He even played nice boy for Mom. We stood in the tiled kitchen and stirred softened butter with one of those stained spoons, then ate cookies with coffee at the dinner table.
I am still this stupid about men. How is that possible – and is there a cure?
**Ten years? Ten Years? Ten YEARS?
2003-06-24 - 1:47 p.m.
There is positively nowhere I would rather be today than looking at this painting. It looks like an amazing show.
As for the Diego Rivera show I mentioned a few days ago, it was a little disappointing. Because they're pieces from a private collection, they're thematically lacking. I am however, very spoilt by having experienced both the Rothko room at the Tate Modern and the Chagall windows in Mainz in the last year. How can portraits of a blond patroness possibly match up? But oh, the Chagall show at SFMOMA cannot be missed.
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former / latter